I stepped into my small cabin, stepping over dozens of empty booze bottles that had piled up over the course of the last five months. I plopped down on my sofa, sinking in almost instantly. Of course, I had another bottle in hand, preparing for another drunken-induced night, as I turned on the TV.
This was how I lived my life for the past three years. The majority of people considered this dirty, unhygienic, and disgusting, even. However, those sorts of people are just projecting losers who have no idea what retirement is like! To me, this is the epitome of freedom. In this society, individuals who work hard and earn a substantial income are highly regarded. In my opinion, 'hard work' is just a nice way to say 'thank you for slaving your life away!' Because in essence, that's what it is.
It goes like this: wake up every day, drag yourself to a job you loathe, spend half of your day there… (sometimes even longer), and by the time you return home, you barely have any time for video games, TV, or even your hobbies. And that's all thanks to the necessities of life, like shopping, cleaning, and making dinner, all while trying to fit in family time.
It's truly the worst of the worst.
And because of societal norms, you're expected to do this until you're at least sixty or seventy, then finally! You can retire on your deathbed!
…
No thanks.
I leaned back, cradling my bottle of beer before taking a large sip. I could feel the cold, tender liquid caress my throat, followed by that burning tingle that always seemed to make my face pucker.
It tasted disgusting.
However, nobody drank beer for the sake of flavor anyway—it's that feeling that makes your head spin and your thoughts slur that makes it all worthwhile.
I was never much of a drinker during my agency days, and that had a lot to do with the fact I was always working, which required a good deal of brain capacity, which meant if I was drunk, I would be terribly incoherent, and that… could've been fatal.
I was lazy, not evil.
However, ever since retirement, drinking was about all I've done.
In fact, I haven't left these woods since retirement. After my final mission, I ventured out to find a proper home that would suit my needs. Small, comfortable, and most of all free of life. So, I settled for a small cabin out in the woods about an hour away from the city. It was everything I could ask for. Every day was filled with peace. And I was free from societal burdens.
At last, I could live the life I had always hoped for.
Upon downing the rest of my beer, I sank deeper into the sofa, closing my eyes, relishing in my new life. Sure, it had been three years, so you'd think I was used to it, but to me, no matter how much time passed, these will always be my drunk thoughts, because it was truly the key to my happiness.
I closed my eyes, a smile wide on my face, knowing the responsibility I was once bound by was gone and never to return.
' *** '
The night had faded rather quickly, and before I knew it, my eyes were blurring open with my perception fogged from my drunken state. I sat up on the sofa, then… I felt it.
"Shit! Worst part of a hangover."
My head was throbbing.
If there was one thing I hated about drinking, it was waking up the next day with a pounding headache and the deep urge to puke the day away. Speaking of puking.
For a moment, I could feel the vomit welling inside my stomach, then my abdominal muscles suddenly forced a week's worth of meals out of me.
I leaned back, coughing, exhausted from the endless amount of puke being extracted from my body. After a few seconds, it had finally ceased.
"Son of a bitch."
As much as my mind wandered to the perks of retirement while drunk, it just as much wandered to the flaws of this life when sober. It does get lonely here—not having a family does play a role in that.
However, I still didn't have much of a complaint.
I did need to clear my mind, though. All the late-night drinking was really starting to catch up to me. I was rarely active due to never really leaving my home, so I figured a small training session wouldn't be so bad.
I stepped outside, where thousands of massive trees appeared to reach the heavens in height and multiply endlessly in depth. Their large frame served as a border for the cabin.
This was how I improved my hand-to-hand combat. Old, but useful.
I actually wasn't much of a hand-to-hand combat fighter. During my days with the agency, I was a lot more proficient in wielding a blade; in fact, I don't think I ever killed an enemy without it. Despite that, though, I was still an above-average martial artist. It was required by the head of the agency, as he always spouted that 'you never want to rely solely on one fighting style!' It always pissed me off.
Although he wasn't wrong.
Approaching the homemade punching bags, I wrapped my hand with thin black elastic hand wraps, wary that my lack of physical activity would cause a torn tendon… or two.
With a deep breath, I drew my arm back slowly, and with a precise, practiced form of a special martial arts I learned with the agency, I impelled my arm forward, aiming directly for the center of the bag.
…..
"Ouch! Dammit, that hurt."
I had completely missed the bag, and instead, I toppled over, face-planting into the ground.
"Well, maybe a training session after a hangover isn't ideal," I said, rubbing my forehead.
I paused for a moment, then sighed irritably.
Not just because I missed the target in general. But because in my nine years with the agency, I had never missed a target, not even once. So, I'd be lying if I said that didn't sting.
'I guess I'm finally deteriorating.' I thought with a nervous smile.
I removed the hand wrap, tossing it to the side, before heading back into the cabin. Just like before, I plopped into the sofa, my eyes meeting the TV, which displayed a classical shonen, that is significantly popular in the country of Katawaska.
It's an emotionally captivating story about a skilled but lazy author. And honestly, I fell in love with it because I related to the protagonist so much. So much so, I almost felt like it was my own biography at times.
I chuckled.
"That just about sums it up."
Smiling, I closed my eyes, this time, without a bottle of booze.
But after only a few mere seconds, a knock rang through the room.
'Huh?'
My eyes shot open, mixed with surprise and confusion.
'Who would be all the way out here?' I thought.
I walked through my filthy living room, placing my hand on the golden doorknob. I didn't rush to open it, I hesitated for a second, listening for if they might make a move—however, they did not.
With a sigh, I swung the door open.
"It's been a while, Namaka."
A tall, lanky man stood with a wide smile. He was dressed in an all-black suit, carrying himself rather formally. When my eyes met his bright gray pupils, they widened.
"C-Chu…?" I *stuttered*.
A few seconds of silence passed.
"Why is the agency here…"